


Contra Mundum

by Verecunda



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Comfort Sex, Depression, Drunk Sex, First Time, Light Angst, M/M, Series 5, Sexual Content, and they were ROOMMATES
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 15:47:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21164135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: Career won't hold you at three in the morning when the wolves come circling. Jim Strange, on the other hand...





	Contra Mundum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [still_lycoris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/still_lycoris/gifts).

> Happy Halloween!

“Jesus Christ.”

Morse groaned. One moment there had been nothing but the taste of Glenlivet burning down his throat and the voice of Rosalind Calloway’s Gilda soaring into sublimity, both of them blazing away the yawning shadows that encroached on every side. Now suddenly both were gone, and there was Strange’s voice cutting through the cloud, Strange’s hand shaking him awake.

“Morse. _Morse._”

He groaned, resisting the inevitable pull back to cold reality, and tried to sink back down into the haze. Strange, however, was never to be thrown off that easily.

“Come along, matey, this is no good.”

There was no chance of holding off wakefulness any longer. His eyes opened, and his vision cleared to see Strange leaning over him, his face all concern. His ears and nose were nipped faintly pink, Morse noted detachedly. Must be cold outside.

“Bit early for you to be back, isn’t it?” he mumbled, the words coming thick and uncertain.

A rueful little smile broke through Strange’s frown at that. “No chance. It’s already gone two. How long’ve you been like that, then?” 

“Not sure.” Morse rubbed his fingers over his eyes, his mind infuriatingly slow and sluggish.

“Case getting to you?”

“No. Well, not only that.”

“Oh.” Strange’s voice went soft. “One of those nights, is it?”

“I suppose so,” he muttered, and bent over so Strange wouldn’t be able to see his face. So often he felt uncomfortably transparent to Strange, and it was something that had only increased since they’d moved in together. At least when he was living on his own, he could lock the door and get away from it all when his head became too crowded and the world seemed too cold and bleak to stand. But with Strange always around, there was no getting away from being noticed.

“Told you you should’ve come out with me and George. Would’ve done you some good. Better than staying cooped up in here by yourself all night.”

He snorted. A quiz down the pub in the company of George Fancy sounded to him like one of Dante’s lesser-advertised circles of Hell.

“I’m all right,” was what he actually said.

“If you say so,” said Strange with his usual tolerant scepticism, and Morse felt that odd, not-quite-comfortable dart of being seen through once again. 

Even less comfortable was the growing throb against his temples. He didn’t think he’d actually drunk that much, but now that the bright rush of the Scotch had faded, it had left behind a dull, dense ache. He rubbed it, but to no effect.

“Come along, matey.” Strange’s hand came down gently on his shoulder. “You're not the only one who's had a skinful tonight. I'm off to bed. You should think about turning in, too.”

Morse’s first impulse was to argue the point, but he couldn’t deny that the thought of bed held more appeal than being bent out of shape in the armchair. So with a sigh, he dragged himself to his feet, and was just about upright when all substance seemed to go out of his head and his knees at the same time, and the next thing he knew, the only thing keeping him on his feet was Strange’s arm about him.

“Here, matey, here, you’re all right…”

Morse now found himself tight against Strange’s chest, nose flattened against his shoulder, the position undignified but undeniably secure. Strange’s coat was cool, and he still smelled of rain from outside - with a faint but persistent hint of lager that made Morse wrinkle his nose. But he was warm, his arm was a safe anchor around Morse’s waist, and he was so very close. He was always close, Morse thought, sometimes oppressively so in their current living arrangement, with the trombone-playing and the games of cribbage; but this was different - the other, better sort of closeness that he occasionally found creeping up on him when they were sitting together of an evening, doing nothing much in particular: the reassuring presence of someone else there, someone to help keep the wolves off. His heart ached, and all at once he was seized with a desperate desire for _more_. It was too strong to be ignored, so, acting on sheer instinct alone, he raised his head and pressed his lips against Strange’s own.

It was a brief, very lopsided kiss, and as soon as it happened, he felt Strange go very still against him. That alone cleared his head more effectively than any amount of aspirin and black coffee could have. At once, he drew sharply back, as far as Strange’s supporting arm would allow, a hot wave of embarrassment threatening to break free and engulf him.

“Oh, God—”

A whole host of apologies and excuses rushed to the tip of his tongue, but they all melted away as Strange shook his head - slowly, almost a little dazed - and shushed him. “It’s all right, matey.”

That gave Morse the courage to meet Strange’s eyes properly, and when he did, he saw how his pupils had dilated, heard how shallow his breath had gone, felt the arm about him tighten - and realised with a strange sort of giddiness that this was something Strange wanted, too.

It was impossible to tell which of them closed the gap the second time. The important thing was, after that first startled moment, they were kissing again: ungainly, clumsy, without any sort of art or finesse - but also deep and thorough, Strange’s tongue moving against Morse’s own with a hunger to match his own, and Morse felt a pang of regret when he finally broke away, just far enough to say, “You said something about going to bed?”

Up went a corner of Strange’s mouth. “Your place or mine?”

They ended up in Strange’s room, it being the nearer of the two, kissing again even before they crashed down on the mattress together. Dimly, as the first articles of clothing melted away beneath wandering hands, Morse wondered if they weren’t on the verge of making a ludicrous mistake. Through the growing haze, his brain was already racing ahead, outlining in minute detail a hundred and one unfortunate scenarios that could arise in the cold light of morning, all the strains it could put on their relationship both in and away from the station - then Strange’s mouth closed over the arch of his throat, winning an involuntary groan from him, and he forgot to think at all. There was only the heat, the rush of desperate animal instinct, sweeping away the darkness that still lapped against the edges of his consciousness. He was hard - almost embarrassingly so - and as Strange shifted his weight over him, pressing him further into the mattress, Morse realised he was in the same condition. That sparked something fierce and possessive deep inside him, and he pulled Strange firmly down on top of him, pulling impatiently at his belt, desperate for more.

“Careful,” Strange warned, but he couldn’t be too put out, because he dipped his head to take Morse’s mouth again, and submitted to have his trousers opened and pushed roughly down over his hips.

From there, it turned into something of a free-for-all: hands trailing over loosened clothes and slipping under to explore the warm space beneath; each piece of clothing falling away until there was they both gasped at the first thrill of skin against skin. Morse gasped for breath, reaching to pull Strange closer to him, and was left feeling rather bereft when Strange eluded his touch, choosing instead to lie alongside him, looking suddenly shy and awkward.

“Have a confession to make. I’m not much of an expert at this sort of lark.”

Neither was Morse. This was a part of himself only quietly acknowledged, and never acted upon. “Well,” he said instead, sounding more matter-of-fact than he really felt, “I suppose we can work out what to do. Men have been doing this even before Socrates and Alcibiades, after all.”

Strange gave a snort. “Yeah. Well. Take your word for it.” Then, before Morse could get distracted with any explanations, he drew him in for another kiss. “At least I reckon I can’t go very wrong with this…” So saying, he closed his hand in one decisive movement around Morse’s prick, and that was the end of all rational thought.

After that, everything was liquid heat, shot through with bright, sharp flashes of sensation; kisses hot and insistent, wandering hands growing steadily surer and more daring as they got to know the ways of each other’s bodies, what made them shudder and curse and moan aloud. Strange’s body enveloped him, soft and solid all at once, shoulders wide and smooth beneath Morse’s hands as he pressed him down into the mattress. Caught beneath him, Morse felt at once trapped and safe, caught between two warring instincts, the terror of being known too well, of being seen and found wanting - and the yearning for closeness, for understanding, to simply not be alone any more. And here was Strange, who saw through him, but who was still here, all the same, who had offered him a place and who was now kissing him fiercely, anchoring him in place as they moved together, losing themselves in each other, that vital closeness growing and growing till it was almost too much, and Morse gave a wholly involuntary whimper that would have heartily embarrassed him if he’d been lucid enough to recognise it as his own.

“Sssh.” Lips warm at his ear, arms tight about him. “All right, matey, you’re all right, I’ve got you…”

And then it _was_ too much, and his orgasm hit him like a lightning-strike, white and blinding. He was helpless against it, clinging to Strange as if his life depended on it while his dry throat forced out one last cry. Above him and against him, Strange gave a huge shudder that he felt from head to toe, breath leaving him in a groan against Morse’s collarbone; and then, suddenly, everything was still.

“Bloody hell,” breathed Strange, after what felt like an age.

“Mm,” Morse agreed, feeling the hint of a smile about his own mouth. He turned his head on the pillow to find Strange watching him, one eyebrow cocked and looking decidedly pleased with himself. He stretched, leisurely and sated, and dropped a kiss to Morse’s shoulder.

“Well, we muddled through that not too badly, if I say so myself.”

“Yeah,” said Morse softly. He felt happily drained and worn-out, and vaguely surprised that he didn’t feel more surprised at what they’d just done. At the same time, he could feel the trepidation building at the back of his mind. What was the standard procedure after sleeping with someone you already shared a house with? It wasn’t exactly a situation he’d ever been in before. 

“Do you want me to go back to my room?”

Somewhat to his chagrin, Strange only laughed, shaking his head. “Buggered if I’ll ever know where you get these ideas of yours.” Before Morse could protest, he put an arm over him and pulled him close. “Plenty of room for two in here, matey, no need for you to go anywhere.”

There was nothing more to be said on that front, so while Strange pulled the covers over them both, Morse sighed and yielded to the invitation to stay - to the unexpected realisation that Strange wanted him to stay. He curled into Strange’s side, head resting against his chest, feeling the heartbeat there growing steadier as sleep slowly stole over them both.

He was fractionally too hot under the covers, but it was infinitely better than what lay beyond this room: the world, dark and cold in all its ugliness. But here he was with Strange, who had seen that ugliness too, who knew it as well as Morse did, and who understood. Maybe he’d even needed this as much as Morse himself had: that closeness, that understanding, that defence against the circling wolves. At least, Morse thought, wherever they went from here, they understood each other. At least they’d always have that.


End file.
